


i’m finally starting to believe (you’re into me)

by bumblebee_rose



Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: Alternate universe- ballet, F/M, the principal dancers fic I said I wouldn’t write but totally did write
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-01
Updated: 2019-02-01
Packaged: 2019-10-20 07:06:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17617778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bumblebee_rose/pseuds/bumblebee_rose
Summary: He tips her chin up with the knuckle of one of his fingers and it doesn’t matter how many times they’ve done it because it always makes her dizzy, and then his lips are on hers and he’s kissing her the way he has been since they were both young and too skinny, and newly appointed principals.It happens as Romeo and Juliette but under all that is Tessa and Scott and tragic love is far too easy for them to fall into.OrThe principal dancer fic. Liberties were taken for the sake of they just were.





	i’m finally starting to believe (you’re into me)

She’s felt her lips on his before, his hands on her face, his smile against hers — as a swan, as a peasant girl, as a lovestruck teenager, as a fairy. She’s gotten to experience his heavy breathing mingled with her own and her flushed cheek pressed against his chest, the damp curls at the back of his neck twirled between her fingers. She’s been his lover for a decade now, his secret, his forbidden one, his wife, they share all their highest highs and lowest lows together. Onstage she’s had the privilege of being his deepest desire, offstage it’s different.

 

She can see him wincing out of the corner of her eye, a curl falling forward as he leans his head sideways.

“I feel bad for them,” he breathes.

“They’re shoes,” she replies, working the satin slipper into the floor. She presses the heel of her hand against the back of the pointe shoe, rolling into the marley and listening as the glue and paper mixture cracks and softens. 

“Still,” he says, rolling his ankles until they snap. “I’ll never get over all the cracking.” 

She grabs the shoe at the back with one hand, using the other to support it near the front as she bends it along the middle waiting for the- _pop!_

“There we go!” She smiles, bending it back and forth a few times, and rolling the top against the floor, before starting on the other shoe. 

“I also break my $120 pointe shoes in my spare time,” he says, rolling the top of his sweatpants and shorts down and pressing at the side of his hip.

“Is it still bothering you?” she asks, leaning forward and ghosting over the purple bruise with her fingertips. Her pale hand is stark against the shadow on his hip, and she pulls it away when he shivers.

“From when you kicked me?” he says, covering it up with laugh. “Yea, you would think, it wasn’t an accident at all, I call that assault on a coworker,” he says in mock seriousness and she rolls her eyes at him. 

“You grabbed me right under the rib,” she protests, “It was just a natural reaction, and then we almost both went down.” 

“Better me than you,” he settles on. “still didn’t drop you though, I would never.”

He grabs her by hands and gets them in the position to counter balance so that they can both get off the floor together. “I know,” she says, after slipping on her boots; warm ups that go over hard or soft sole slippers, keep in heat, and make swishing noises when she walks. He wears too big socks instead, says that he can hear her from miles away with those things on. 

“No ‘i’ in team” he says hauling her up at the same time she pulls him up and she laughs. 

“No ‘i’ in team” she agrees. 

 

*******

 

She doesn't think she’ll ever get tired of the feeling of his hands on her body, strong and heavy, swallowing the sliver of her waist. He has tiny scars on the inside of his fingers from crystals and trimming on bodices that nick his hands when she turns. He never complains though, says they’re just casualties of war.

She spins, arms above her, and his hands move over her stomach and her back, catching her as she brings her leg into arabesque behind her. She turns in his arms to face him and they're so close she can feel his nose on hers and his hip pressed against her own. 

 

“You are in love!” a voice yells from somewhere around them, but her sense of direction is a bit off and she can't tell where its coming from. “He came to see you at the balcony, you have to be Juliette; he is Romeo.”

She trails a hand down the side of his face, soft as a feather, and smiles, forehead pressed against his, and chin angled up at his lips. 

“Yes!” the voice says, “Use the natural chemistry, you have to feel it, you have to make them believe it.” 

It’s not hard for either of them, they’ve been playing Romeo and Juliette for years, tragic lovers comes almost too easily when she thinks about it, so she tries not to. She rotates in his arms, bringing her own over her head as she leans to the side. He supports her, holding her under her breast as he leans her against his thigh, laying his cheek against her chest before he brings her up again. 

 

She hears a small sound of protest from the back of his throat.

“I know it’s your back, we can mark the next lift,” she says through her teeth, as she leans her head into his shoulder, the back of her neck slick with sweat that transfers to his hand as he holds her there. 

“Its okay,” he murmurs back as she brushes her fingers lightly against his jaw. 

“You sure?”

“Positive,” he says as she leaps into his arms, swinging her body around so that she’s resting her weight across both his shoulders. 

She développés her leg, stretching it to the ceiling and letting her arm follow. She slips backwards a bit on the fabric of his shirt and sucks in a breath, but he adjusts almost immediately, raising her up just the slightest amount without so much as a misstep. 

They speak in sounds sometimes; code that means nothing to anyone else. She clicks her tongue and he supports her around the middle, she hums and he doesn’t let go until she does first. 

 

She's in the air for a while, suspended above the ground like she's floating, but she can feel the muscles in his shoulder tense below him. She trusts him implicitly though, and as he lowers her she makes sure to hold herself the entire way down, never giving him more weight to bear than he already has. 

“Good there, keep the neck long!” the voice shouts and she lengthens the back of her neck, pressing her shoulders down as her shoes touch the ground.

During the last bit of the routine there's a moment where they’re both face to face, her back pressed to his front and his hands slung low on her waist as they look into each others eyes. His eyes soften as he leans in but she pulls away before their lips make contact, running back to her tower, looking back at him before she climbs the stairs.

He runs to her, taking her hands with his own and holding them between their chests as they stand gazing at each other. She’s never been able to decide exactly what colour his eyes are, sometimes they’re more green, sometimes more brown, gold flecks around his pupil and a dark ring along the outside. He tips her chin up with the knuckle of one of his fingers and it doesn’t matter how many times they’ve done it because it always makes her dizzy, and then his lips are on hers and he’s kissing her the way he has been since they were both young and skinny, and newly appointed principals. Soft and much too tender; he would rather cover himself in the same purple that rests on his hip than let her lips bruise. He’s always been good with his emotions too, good at acting and somehow he channels it all into his character. She feels every moment of desperation and love and uncertainty as his lips move carefully against hers. They kiss as Romeo and Juliette but under all that is Tessa and Scott and tragic love is far too easy for them to fall into.

“Good!” the voice yells and she feels his thumb brush over her cheek as they part.

 

She opens her eyes and doesn’t meet his but rathers stares at his lips, full and tinged soft red because of her. She raises her eyes to his and they're both breathing heavily — much too close to each other — but she's a professional so she bunches her skirt in her hands to stop them from doing anything else. 

“A few things to work on,” says the voice and she shakes her head once, before turning to address it.

 

He runs the knuckle of his pointer finger down the back of her neck. “You can breathe, if you want,” he murmurs and she can feel her chest expand and her hands fall open. He knows her body, he plays her like an instrument every day after all. 

She's a professional, and she's acting, she says inside her head until she makes herself believe it; real feelings are messy and her job is to be nothing short of perfect. 

 

*******

 

She watches him when their schedules leave open spots; when she’s not needed and he’s rehearsing other parts of the ballet. He doesn’t spend the entire show by her side, but her favourite moments are the ones when her hand rests in his and his steadiness is never far. 

 

She watches him as the teenage boy joking with his friends in town, an intricate mask covering the top half of his face as he pretends to be a delinquent sneaking into a party. Sometimes he sees her peering through the windows and his eyes light up as she softly waves, a smile meant only for her being his hidden acknowledgement. 

She’ll sit sometimes outside the studio and watch him with her head on her crossed forearms. The sun coming in from the outside windows warming her back as she leans against one of the ledges and lets herself relax. His charisma, and stage quality, and skill on full display as he moves. People used to say she was lucky to be put with him, he tells her it’s always been the other way around. 

 

When he comes out sweaty with his hair a mess he wraps her in a hug and she squeals, complaining about him being sticky and gross, but he only pulls her tighter, burying his nose in the crook of her neck and rocking her sideways on her feet. 

She likes to watch him when she can and he does the same for her, they’ve always been each others biggest supporters so it makes sense. 

 

******

 

“Three weeks until curtain,” she says when they’re alone in the studio, and she’s untying her shoes and taking off her toe pads. She cuts the tape off her toes and rolls her ankle, letting it crack before curling and uncurling her toes, listening to all the joints pop. 

He scrunches his nose in mock disgust. “Your feet smell,” he says and she rolls her eyes. 

“I wonder why,” she retorts, massaging her heels and lower calves with white knuckled hands. 

He reaches for his water bottle and winces, his breath coming out in a sharp burst. 

“Please go see physio,” she says, directing her attention fully to him.

“I have an appointment booked for tomorrow morning,” he replies, tilting his head to the side.

 

She frowns, even if he’s in by tomorrow he’s still going to be slouching all the way home and he has to carry his gym bag and she can’t imagine it will feel all that good. He does it for her all the time; she supposes she can return the favour.

“I can try to help it a bit if you show me where,” she says, holding his eyes with hers. 

“Lower back on the left,” he says, touching the area with his hand. “It just feels tight.”

 

She makes him lie on his stomach, with his cheek on his hands and his eyes closed. “Can I,” she starts, “roll up your—”

“Shirt? Knock yourself out,” he says, and she peels back the tight fabric until his lower back is exposed, all tight muscle and tan skin and she’s seen him shirtless before onstage and in practice, and had her hands all over him that way — but this is different.

 

She begins, not digging her thumbs in enough to change anything because she isn’t a therapist and she doesn’t want to make it worse, she just wants to give him some sort of temporary relief. He looks younger with his eyes closed, fewer lines across his forehead and less tension in his jaw. The windows let in golden light that shines off his bare skin, still damp with his and her sweat. Things like that stopped being gross a long while ago; they’re all too familiar with each other’s bodies, and the clothes they wear to rehearsal don’t leave much for either of them to speculate on. 

She moves her thumb in a circle and he hisses, making her immediately take her hands off. 

“S’all fine,” he murmurs, and “feels good,” and she tentatively touches him again, feeling hard muscle under her and soft skin. She smooths a straight line from his spine outward and he moans in response. 

“Stop it,” she says, feeling her cheeks warm, “people are going to think we’re up to something.” 

He laughs and she can feel the vibrations go through his body “Us?” he jokes. “Why would anyone think that?”

“We arrive together, leave together every night; you have an aversion to personal space and proper hand placement,” she replies, shrugging her shoulders awkwardly. “I could see why someone might think we were—” she feels her mouth go dry, “that we were—”

“Having sex,” he cuts in.

“Involved, to put it delicately,” she says.

“I guess,” he replies, swallowing once, “it wouldn’t be that hard to believe.” 

“No,” she breathes, and there’s a heavy silence that neither of them break for a while.

 

He moans again, louder, for show, and she lightly swats him, shooting him a look and crawling up to him. She places her lips right beside his ear, pausing for a second as he shivers. “Scott.” 

“What?” 

“Shut up,” she whispers and he laughs. It’s much easier that way, if they play it off as a joke.

They leave the room and neither of them bring it up again.

 

******

 

She loves to watch him move.

Being the Romola to his Nijinsky was one of the roles she’s enjoyed the most; she was his on-stage wife, his biggest supporter, his crutch.

 

He used to fall asleep slumped against her on the subway after a tough rehearsal day, his curls falling across his eyes and his breath tickling her neck. It’s the most physically demanding role he’s done; the spiral into insanity he has to replicate through movement leaves him bruised and exhausted, his legs shaking with exertion when he ends with a final bow. She remembers him saying that sometimes he just had to accept a fall would hurt. She would watch as he fell like Rome and hit the floor, flat on his back with a single hand pressed to his chest. She wouldn’t expect anything else from him, he’s never given less than one hundred percent to every role. 

 

She was his constant, his caretaker, his home base. He said his favourite parts were when he got to dance with her, wrapping her into his arms and laying his head on her chest. Her favourite parts were when she could watch from the wings, see the way he curved and arched as he threw his body into every motion. The hollows in his cheeks and temples sharpened as he breathed out heavily through his mouth, chest bared and arms held out to the side as he stood at center stage.

In his worst moments, she tried to replicate the support her character gave while onstage as much as she did while off.

 

“You can stay with me tonight if you want,” she’d said one night when she had to almost carry him through the underground, sick with a cold and warm to the touch. 

“You don’t have to,” he had mumbled, his breath warm on her shoulder. 

“I just doubt you’ll make it home on your own; I can’t be there to make sure you don’t pass out in the street.” She laughed softly, running a hand through his hair.

“You would have to find a new partner,” he said half asleep into the dip of her neck.

“We’ve both danced with other people before, last year you did Cinderella with the Bolshoi.”

“Yes,” he agreed, his words soft, “but no one moves the way you do, and I always come back.”

 

He had an arm around her from the moment they got off the subway to the moment they stumbled through her apartment door. Toeing off her shoes, she pressed the back of her hand to his cheek and found it warm but not hot. All good signs. 

“I can take the couch,” he’d said, shrugging his coat off. 

“I’m not making you sleep on the couch.” 

“I don’t want you get get sick too.” He said concerned and she took his hand.

“Did you forget the part where you’ve been breathing on me all day? It's fine,” she reassured him, walking to her bedroom with him in tow.

 

He changed out of his tight spandex into soft cotton pants and a sweater. Brushed his teeth with her at the sink, and let her rub mint scented moisturizer into his skin. His eyelashes made shadows on his face when his eyes drooped down and she guided him to her bed with a hand in his, shut off the light before climbing under the covers herself.

“Thank you,” he said a bit later, muffled into one of her pillows. She could smell the mint on his skin and the sweat cooling in his hairline, thought that her pillows might smell like him for days.

“For what?” she asked, finding his upturned hand and rubbing the middle of his palm with her thumb.

“Letting me stay here.” 

“It’s practice for our characters,” she said, tracing his life lines. Her sister taught her to read palms before she left for ballet school, slept in her bed every night and whispered about how much she would miss her.

“Method acting,” he mumbled, “Good idea.”

“All of mine are” she said, abandoning his hand and wrapping an arm around his waist.

 

He was still a bit warm, heat pooling in the space where his shoulder met his neck but he was shivering.

“Tessa.”

“Method acting.” 

“Right.”

“I’m keeping you warm too,” she sighed into the back of his neck. “You take care of the people you love.” 

 

*********

 

“Tessa, could you lean against him a bit more, maybe bring your back hand up to his cheek.” 

She presses against him, leaning forward on the front of her shoe and letting him support her weight. He’s holding her around the waist, eyes tipped low at her lips covered in rose, her hair curled and pinned back with pearls. He’d slipped a finger just under the neckline of her dress earlier, felt the seams between the pads of his fingers and remarked on the stitching and trim. 

 

She has one hand on his chest, resting just above his heart and she brings the other down the side of his face, slowing at his cheekbone and tracing over the peaks there. She hears a camera shutter go off and brings her thumb over his lips, maps out the geography of his bottom lip, and tilts her head just so.

He sticks out his tongue the smallest bit, wetting the tip of her thumb and she laughs, pulling her hand away and bringing it to his clavicle instead. He laughs back and she hears the camera shutter go off again, two clicks that bring them back to the fact that they’re doing a set of promo photos and not in their own little world.

“Gross!” She laughs, shaking her head and he raises his eyes to hers, lined in black making them stand out more than usual. “You should wear this stuff all the time,” she says, her thumb at the outside corner of his eye “looks nice on you.”

“My brothers would have a field day with that,” he says, chuckling and setting her back on balance so she can fall off pointe properly.

“Ahh, they’re just jealous that you got all the looks,” she teases as she steps into arabesque. 

He holds her hand above her, his other arm bent behind his back as he gazes at her. “Is that so?” he asks. 

“Objectively,” she says, scrunching her nose at him as she envelopes her leg, rotating on the block of her shoe and extending to the other corner. The camera clicks again and he moves to hold her other hand, steadying her before she brings her leg down and steps off pointe, rolling down through the balls of her feet. 

 

“Can we get a few static poses of the both of you?” the photographer asks. “Some more intimate shots?” he clarifies and they both nod sharing a look. 

She stands in b plus and he stands behind her holding her around her shoulders leaning his head against her. An assistant comes and moves her curls off the side of her neck, draping them down her back instead and brushing a stray hair away from her face. He moves his lips to her shoulder, grazing all along her skin and she shivers, her eyes fluttering shut and her head tilting to the side as he moves up her neck and finds the space just below her jaw.

“Your shoulders are up in your ears. Just relax,” he murmurs into the shell of her ear and she nods once, just the smallest amount. The camera shutter clicks a few times and she breathes out from her mouth, keeping her heartbeat in check and releasing the tension in her body. 

 

The photographer pauses to look at the photos, nodding a few times, and he shifts back from her just slightly, giving her enough space to roll out her neck a bit. She watches him carefully the entire time, the ends of his hair glowing in the light from the open windows. It illuminates his cheekbones and jaw, shadows settling into his temples and his Cupid’s bow, and the only thought she has is that she could understand why Juliette insisted that a rose is beautiful regardless of the name you give it. 

She decides his name really doesn’t matter to her in that moment, and turns away before she does something stupid. Names have never been something they’ve relied on; he’s been her lover for years regardless of what they’re called. Sugar Plum and Cavalier, Giselle and Loys, Odette and Siegfried. It doesn’t make much difference to them. 

 

They do a variation of other poses, him kissing her hands and her spinning in his arms. Him tipping her chin up, and her leaning her weight against his side. The last pose has them both kneeling facing each other, her back arched with his head laying across her neck and chest, his breath pooling in her clavicle. His ear is resting just above her pulse point and she’s almost sure that he can feel every single one of her heartbeats. 

“It is the east and Juliette is the sun,” he murmurs into her neck and she smiles, cradling his head against her and bringing one of her hands through his hair. She hardly hears it but the camera shutter goes off, and off, and off. 

 

******

 

He’s always leaving marks on her.

His fingerprints leave their ghost on her waist for days, the palm of his hand imprints itself on the small of her back. She has a bruise from the time he nearly dropped her and he grabbed around her thigh so hard to catch her it left purple. 

“I hate this thing,” he says, fingering the hem of her silk practice skirt from his position kneeling on the floor. “Makes you hard to grab.” 

She rubs the material between her fingers; she supposes it’s a bit slippery, but the effect it has is worth it. It floats around her like cloud, fastened just below her breasts on her costume but here it rests on the slip of her waist. Romeo and Juliette isn’t a tutu ballet, it’s long lines and flowing dresses and hair kept loose. It’s raw and emotional and exciting and she adores it.

“Cover your hands in that stuff gymnasts use,” she suggests, shrugging, and he furrows his eyebrows, considering for a second before he speaks up. 

“Yeah, I’m sure it would look great when I put you down after a lift and you’re just covered in white chalk.” 

“You could see all the places you’ve touched me,” she notes, a glint in her eye.

“Tess,” He says, his face falling “you know I wouldn’t—”

“I’m joking,” she says softly, silk swishing between her knees. “If I had a problem with how your hands made me feel, you would know.” 

 

*******

 

He gets antsy the closer they get to opening night. Excess energy builds up that he usually gets rid of by drilling variations over and over again or working himself so hard he’s drenched in sweat. He needs something to distract him from the constant countdown in his head and most of the time she ends up playing a key role in that distraction. 

 

“You’re going to get blood on the satin,” she notes as she watches him prick himself again with the needle. 

“Sewing may not be my calling,” he deadpans, poking the needle into the side of the shoe and setting it down on her coffee table. 

“You did really well.” 

“Please don’t lie to me, I can take criticism as long as it’s gentle,” he says, rubbing at his eyes and slumping backwards into her couch. 

He’s overtired and they both know it. The rings of purple around their eyes don’t lie any more than their aching bodies do.

 

“It would just be faster if I did it myself,” she reasons.

“Have you considered being a surgeon? Because I think you would be good at the whole sewing up people part,” he says

“I would hope so; I’ve been doing this since 6th grade.” She snorts, picking up the shoe herself and sliding the needle out of the satin. 

“How about acupuncture?” he suggests, flicking through channels with her remote.

“What’s with all the career alternates?” she questions. 

“I’m not going to make it,” he groans, covering his eyes. “Call in the understudy,” 

“One week out, and there’s no ‘i’ in team’ she reminds him, “we’re both going to make it,” and he slumps lower on her couch before throwing a pair of his balled up socks across the room.

 

*******

 

She’s never been to Paris, but she’s been to Montreal. 

She’s never been to Paris, but she’s been enamoured with French culture since she was a little girl; she’s been speaking French every single day for the past 26 years of her life.

She started learning when she was three, hair in a bun, pink tights and leather slippers on her feet. 

Plié to bend, tendu to stretch, sauté to jump. At three years old she knew three words. 

She’s been to Montreal, once when she was 22, but she never got to go to Paris.

 

She’s danced to Tchaikovsky’s _The Nutcracker_ where they play mature lovers, And Bizet's _Carmen_ where he growls in her ear and grabs her by the thigh. In Vivaldi’s _The Four Seasons_ she’s draped against him with violins ringing in her ears, her legs extending outward for miles. 

She loves the music, especially when it’s live. She loves having a pianist play for them during classes, loves the sounds coming from the orchestra pit as the musicians warm up before a show. The clash of tambourines has never once made her flinch. 

She’s always wanted to see the chamber orchestra in Florence live. Sit on a balcony and close her eyes and just feel rather than having to emote. 

She’s never been to Florence, but she supposes the orchestra pit at the theatre is close enough. 

 

It’s in the moments where his hand makes her shiver and he smiles at girls in the streets and his lips on her forehead raise goosebumps all along her arms that she thinks of how much she’s sacrificed to be where she is. 

She hasn’t spent a full year at home since she was twelve, and somewhere along the way it started feeling normal. The last time she got a real pedicure was before she left for ballet school. Calluses are a necessity, not a nuisance. She is a cookie cut-out in so many ways, her calves sharpened with angles and lines and her thighs defined all the way to her hips. A good girl who got her bellybutton pierced because it was the only part of her changing body that she could control. 

It’s in the moments with him alone that she feels the most reckless and put together at the same time, and most days she isn’t sure which side she would rather have win. 

 

******

 

“Five days until opening night.” she reminds him as they eat the proper portions of chicken breast and rice and green beans with a dash of oil from a  
pre packed lunch container on the floor, drinking ice water from plastic water bottles. 

He groans and slumps backwards against the wall so suddenly that she finds a bruise on his elbow the next morning. 

 

****** 

 

 _»There’s always been an attraction there, we don’t deny it.”_ Is what they say when they’re asked about their performances by reporters and journalists. His hand splayed on her hip and his brow pressed to her collarbone don't rely on their impeccable stage presence to tell a story of want. 

The media gets their soundbite and their headline and everyone goes home happy. 

_“We don’t let it affect our work though, people being invested in what we produce is such a compliment.”_ she says, and it leaves her throat dry. 

Sometimes she thinks, In her most desperate moments, when snow piles up on her windowsill and every blanket piled on can’t keep her warm, sometimes she thinks: she would risk it all to feel him in the one way she’s never been allowed to. 

 

******

 

She shrugs off her coat while throwing her bag down by the door, making sure to stomp the snow off her boots on the mat. He does the same, having been in her apartment before. Knowing the rules, he carries both of their shoes to the mudroom.

 

“Do whatever you want,” she calls over her shoulder as she strips off her wrap. “I’m sweaty and gross and in need of a shower.”

“Got it.” he calls back as she closes the bathroom door behind her and peels off her bodysuit. 

 

He’s lounging on her couch when she gets out of the shower, flicking through movies and eating popcorn without butter and only a dash of salt. “Moulin Rouge,” he mumbles through a mouthful of food.

“I’ve always loved the music.” She shrugs, settling into his side and leaning her head on his shoulder, her hair damp at the ends.

He turns towards her, burying his nose in her hair. “You smell like strawberry,” he remarks, looking down at her.

“It's the shampoo.” she says, tracing the canyons between his knuckles with one of her fingers.

 

He spends half his nights at her place, in the crease of her couch, and in all the alcoves in her kitchen, working fresh tomatoes into sauce on her stove, and rolling out her sore calves with his fingers. He never touches her scars if he can help it; she got her legs cut open for him twice and he cuts his heart open for her every day in thanks. 

 

“Your calves?” he asks, seemingly reading her mind while pressing play on the remote.

“Fine today,” she says. “Bourres were better than yesterday. Your back?”

“Good if I keep weight off that side, and support myself.”

“Physio and ice?” she asks. 

He nods. “Like usual,” he says, running a hand through his hair.

It’s longer and full now, dark brown curls like ocean waves. She got hers dyed to match when she was partnered with him at 18; they've moulded themselves around each other in more ways than one.

 

She spends the duration of the movie pressed into his side, lets him feed her popcorn and rest his hand on her upper thigh. He sings every word of “Come What May” to her, lets her slump against him and tuck her cold toes under his thighs. Neither of them move as Satine pleads she's a performer to Zeidler, that it's all acting, that she would never think of loving Christian that way.

The credits roll and he doesn’t say anything, “It's a bit blunt with the symbolism, isn't it?” she asks to break the silence, turning to look at him, and he's already looking at her, hazel eyes piercing into her own “I mean, Satine and Christian. Satan and Christ,” she breathes.

“Black Swan, White Swan,” he replies, in a low voice. “It's all the same really, sometimes it's just that obvious.” and she’s not quite sure when he got so close.

She can feel the weight of his side against hers, his hand on her knee turning into lead. “It's not always clear though,” she gets out.

“It's not?” he asks, his eyes searching hers.

She takes a breath, looking up at him under her lashes. “No.” And she can feel her heartbeat in her throat, her toes curling underneath her.

“Maybe you're not noticing what's in front of you,” he says, and she can feel his breath on her lips and she knows they're not talking about the movie, or ballet or anything other than the lines they blur too often. “It’s easy to see,” he mumbles “if you look,” and his lips are millimeters away from her own. 

She should roll her eyes at him and he should joke that she needs a trip to the eye doctor and she should stop all of this because they don't kiss when they're not in tights and covered in crystals but his eyes begin to flutter closed and she can’t make herself pull back, and the next thing she knows his lips are on hers and her body feels numb. 

 

It’s different than kissing him at rehearsal. For one, there isn’t someone watching, yelling at them to be more passionate. It isn’t timed either, there’s no mental clock in her mind that counts down five seconds before she has to walk away or exit the sage. He’s raw when he kisses her, his hands on the side of her face. It’s a performance for the other alone and she is nothing if not a performer. 

A loud bang against her wall, which she’ll later learn was someone stumbling drunk through her apartment building, makes her jump back from him, turning the absence of space between them into a canyon. He pulls his hand off of her like he's been burned, but his eyes are still locked with hers. He licks his lips, opens his mouth to say something but she cuts him off.

 

“It's late,” she announces, her voice sounding loud and foreign in the quiet of her apartment.

“You're right.” he says, standing up. “I should,” he stutters, looking behind him at the door, “I should go before, y’know, it's a Friday night. Cab service is busy.”

He won’t stop fidgeting, pulling at the cuffs of his sleeves and looking everywhere but her. She can practically hear the sirens going off in his head, the way he holds his shoulders doesn’t hide much about how he feels. You shouldn’t get involved with people who know every tick your body has and she’s sure the way that she’s squeezing her hands together in her lap isn’t hard for him to read. He pries her hands apart when she does it it rehearsal, says she’s going to break a thumb if she isn’t careful. He doesn’t look twice at her, much less touch her now though. 

 

“Yes,” she says walking him to the door, and she usually pecks him on the cheek or hugs him before he goes, but she doesn't trust herself to do either of those things and keeps her hands glued to her sides. If she touches him she doesn’t think she’ll be able to stop. 

He leaves and she drinks more than half a bottle of good wine. She hasn't had a drink since the off season and they're all lightweights because they spend all day in the studio and she hasn't slept properly since the last time he stayed over, and she feels like she’s only ever eating carrots. 

Her knees shake a bit when she gets off the couch.

 

*********

 

 

If she had the choice, she wouldn’t look him in the eyes the next day. She would just not meet his eyes on the subway, or at the barre. So she doesn’t look his way until she absolutely has to, because, unfortunately for her, they have to play believable lovers and weep over each other’s fake-dead bodies. He’s never touched her so coldly before; his hands feel foreign as they hold her waist and his lips have never felt so unnatural against hers. Stage rehearsal is never kind to either of them. 

She asked him once how he could turn his emotions on a dime so easily, how he could quickly make his eyes watery and project to an entire theatre. He said it isn’t hard for him; the thought of losing her is enough. 

 

As she moves herself off of him, her chest heaving and her cheeks bright red, the director commends his performance with a smile and a round of applause. Says that she could really believe something had broken inside of him. 

 

*******

 

She rides the subway back to her apartment alone that night; he said he wanted to stay late to go over “things” again.

He does his best work during last-minute fixes.

 

*******

 

It’s the day before opening night and they say no more words to each other than strictly necessary. Not for the first time in her life is she grateful that they can speak in looks and touch. 

 

He approaches her at the last possible moment in true-to-self fashion, right as she's making her way off the stage. 

“Tessa,” he says, grabbing her arm before she can escape and it’s the fact that he calls her by her full name that surprises her more than him grabbing onto her. 

“I have to—” she mumbles weakly, his hand still keeping her from fleeing, “wardrobe wanted me to drop by—”

He sighs, letting her arm go, looking guiltily at the red finger marks left on her bicep. “Can we please just talk?” he gets out, and her legs are rooted to the ground but all she wants to do is run. 

She glances around, looking at all the people walking by them and the lighting crew in the wings, and the stage manager walking the set. “Scott,” she hisses, “this is not the best place to—”

“It doesn’t have to mean anything,” he starts, stepping back because he knows her and he knows she needs space. “We’re both tired and stressed, and we spend all day with each other. It was just an accident.” 

“An accident,” she repeats. 

“Tessa, you can call it whatever you want,” he says exhausted, so she takes a deep breath and nods, because they have nowhere near enough time to unpack that. 

“Okay,” she says running a hand through her hair. “You’re right, we have to— we have to put it behind us so we can work properly.” 

“Exactly,” he says, and she hates the way his voice sounds so structured. 

“We’ve been through more,” she notes and he nods, shifting his weight on his feet before he speaks up again.

“Is it okay if I still—” he stammers and she feels all the colour drain from her face. “You know, stay with you tonight,” he articulates evenly, and she knew it was coming but it still feels like he stepped on her chest.

 

They share a bed before opening night of every show, somehow it became a them thing, and neither of them deny the fact that they sleep better in the other’s arms. They pour out emotion, and hold the other with as much separation of real and fake as they can. It’s no wonder they’re both touch-starved creatures of comfort. 

“It helps,” she says, nodding and he breathes a sigh of relief. 

That night, when he’s settled in the dip of her mattress and craving touch, he asks if he can hold her. She intertwines one of her legs with his and says he can call it whatever he wants. 

 

It’s not like they’ve ever needed to define anything anyways. 

 

*****

 

 

“We’re good? Right?” is the first thing he asks her when she wakes up on his chest with his hand stroking through her hair. 

 

“Did you set the coffee pot last night?” She asks with eyes still closed and met with silence. “Then no, we are not good.” She decides, rolling off of him. 

“Tess,” he prods, pulling at a loose strand of her hair “I’m serious.” 

“Me too,” she replies.

“Tesssssa,” he whines, peering over her shoulder as she curls further into herself. 

“Scott,” she says in a mildly threatening tone and he flops onto his back. 

“I’ll make breakfast.” he decides, and she makes a noncommittal noise of approval as he tentatively presses a kiss to the side of her head and leaves her be. 

 

“Why are you shirtless?” she asks when she walks down the stairs to find him cooking bare-chested at her stove. 

“It’s hot.”

“It’s November.” 

He just shrugs and she rolls her eyes at him, slumping down onto one of the stools at the counter and resting one foot on the leather seat. 

Somewhere during the night one of her socks came off, so now she’s wearing one loose maroon one and walking around with the other foot bare. 

 

“Pancake for your thoughts?” he asks, setting a plate in front of her and leaning against the granite surface. 

“We’re fine,” she sighs, gearing up for the conversation they’ve avoided for a week and pushing down a wave of nausea. 

“I don’t regret it, just so you know,” he says, and she nods, pulling at a stray thread in her sock. 

“That’s good,” she breathes.

“You won’t shut me out again then?” he asks and he looks so worn-down for the first time that morning that she gives in, taking her foot off the top the the stool before speaking. 

 

“It’s just—” she begins, tucking a piece of stray hair behind her ear to buy herself time to collect her thoughts and settle her breathing. “We can’t for so many reasons, and I know that we toe the line, I get that, but this is our jobs Scott; I can’t lose this,” she says and she feels sick to her stomach but she pushes through because someone needs to save them. 

“You should know by now that you’re never getting rid of me; it’s been ten years, I don’t think you could escape if you tried,” he jokes weakly, and she can’t help but laugh softly. She’s missed him even if it’s only been a few days, which serves as nothing but a painful reminder of how much she stands to lose. 

 

All she can think about is how stupid she is, her eyes prickling because she’s probably gone and ruined it all for one messy kiss in her apartment.

“I know you know this, but you are important to me in more ways than just dancing,” she notes in a quiet voice and he looks at her, really looks at her like he used to, for the first time in days. 

His importance in the pieces no audience will ever see is unmatched. In the pieces of them that somehow exist out of beige coloured walls and marley floors, trade in ballet slippers for bowling shoes, and burn garlic bread in her oven. 

He steals a piece of dough off her plate, and she looks sideways at him, a smirk cracking through her lips and he smiles back in return. 

 

“I’ll take anything you give me,” he murmurs and she grabs one of his hands, tangling her fingers with his. 

“We’re going to be okay,” she says and he squeezes her hand before letting go to wash the cooled pan on the stove. They’re going to be okay, she thinks, breathing deeply and somehow it feels better, like she can get over it. 

They must both be delirious with stress and worry and pure exhaustion because neither of them can stop giggling for five full minutes when he gets drenched with water after trying to wash the ladle. 

 

******

 

There are always too many emotions running around on opening night, so in hindsight it was obvious. 

 

“No more days until show day,” she sings to him during warm up and he smacks a hand to his chest before pretending to faint, which makes her smile, and that makes him beam. 

He’s a model partner, holding her water bottle, and doting on her every move, rolling out her calves and blending out the corner of her eyeshadow with his thumb when he sees a crease. He looks at her a lot too, even more than usual. She catches him glancing at her out of the corner of his eye when the choreographer is addressing them, one hand still holding onto the silk of her skirt.

He doesn’t act like anything’s happened between them at all. He still touches her, and laughs with her, and keeps her warm by running his hands up and down her arms. Not for the first time in her life is she grateful he’s the way he is, outgoing and loud, and sure. She doesn’t know why she was so worried in the first place and feels the weight of the entire ocean lift off of her chest. 

 

Show day always makes him sentimental and soft, creases at the corners of his eyes forming when he smiles and laughs at her bad jokes. Wrapped in a knit sweater and leg warmers, she goes over bits of her own parts, tracing arm pathways and cementing her character. He folds her into his arms somewhere along the way, the thick fabric of his jacket rough against her cheek and she leans her head against his shoulder, closing her eyes. She rubs a circle on his lower back until she finds a bulge of something, and warmth there, which causes her hand to still. She tries to pull away but he squeezes her tight once more before letting her go, sliding his hands down her arms. 

“Your back?” She asks, confused and he swings their joined hands between them lightly. 

“Heating pad,” he answers casually, “there’s a built in pocket in the jacket and everything,” and he’s so genuinely impressed by it that she has to smile. 

“Crazy,” she laughs, rolling her eyes. “But really, hows your back?” she asks seriously, looking up at him, and he tilts his head. 

“How many times do I have to tell you I’m fine?” he says softly, “It just needs rest, but if you haven’t noticed we’ve been a bit busy. The Nutcracker isn’t as much for either of us, I’ll be good as new soon.” 

“Positive?” she checks, and now it’s his turn to roll his eyes at her. 

“You’re being a worry-wart,” he teases and there’s a tenderness in his voice she wasn’t expecting that nearly sends her sideways.

“I do worry about you,” she says back and he presses a kiss to her forehead at that. 

“Go get ready; I’ll see you backstage, Juliette,” he says coyly as he walks backwards from her and she stands there smiling for way too long. 

 

*******

 

Her pre-show playlist Isn’t classical music. It’s Queen, and David Bowie, and Hall and Oates, and enough beats per minute to keep her heart pumping. It’s Janet Jackson and Prince and Madonna and as much of a contrast as she can make to the pale cream of Juliette’s silk gown. 

She doesn’t sit and listen to the ballet’s soundtrack on repeat, or study the religious values of her character's thoughts. She blasts old Britney Spears because she likes the way it makes her feel, the way she mouths the words through painted lips, crude metaphors with pink blush on her cheeks and tights covering her shaking legs. 

 

“I’m not that innocent,” she sings along with a pop princess through her phone’s speakers. Her eyes lined lightly in black and gold tracing her upper lid, pointe shoes tied together on the top counter and body glue keeping her costume secure. 

She needs enough contrast or it all melds together and she becomes the character, becomes the lovestruck girl that kisses and tells. Impulsive and unthinking and swept away in lust. 

She can be all of her missed teenage years through Juliette, years she spent wrecking her feet and ruining her legs while her friends ruined their mothers’ cars and their boyfriends’ white shirts with lipstick marks. She can excuse the way her eyes sweep over his chest and her urge to twirl his hair between her fingers as Juliette, it’s only fair if he gets to touch her through Romeo. 

 

It’s only later, much later, that she thinks that if she was going for contrast she got it all wrong, because Juliette killed herself for him, wrecked her body for what she thought would help, and as she looks at the scars on her legs and thinks about the ache that never really goes away, she realizes she did the exact same thing. 

 

******

 

He comes barrelling through her dressing room door while she’s applying her lipstick in front of the mirror, red lining every curve of her mouth. 

 

“Scott?” she questions, confused, because he’s breathing heavy in costume in her changeroom, and the only explanation she can come up with is that something has gone horribly wrong. 

“Your hairpiece,” he says by way of explanation, waving a piece of gold trimming connected to a comb around in his hand, “wardrobe gave it to me and said it was important so I ran.” 

“You ran?” she asks, a smile covering her entire face “Scott we don’t even have to be backstage for at least half an hour.” 

“They said it was important,” he repeats, “I didn’t want you to worry,” he says, tilting his head and she notices his eyes are lined in black again. Dark kohl all along his water line and upper lid and his eyes a sharp contrast. Green like forest moss and brown like milk chocolate, the cream coloured blouse lying clean across his chest and draping all along his arms. 

She puts the hairpiece down on the counter. He ran through the theatre to bring her a few pieces of gold trim because he knows her and knows she gets frazzled when everything isn’t perfectly in place and she didn’t even notice she was missing it in the first place. Fuck it, is all she thinks in that moment, high on adrenaline and pre-show nerves. 

 

He looks really good and she squares her shoulders and does something really stupid. 

 

She walks up to him, holds each side of his face, and kisses him for the second time, and he kisses her back, holding her under her chin with one hand and ghosting over her ribs with the other. He pulls away from her just after a bit, and she’s a little dizzy and can’t really register how much time has passed when he’s breathing heavily against her lips. 

“Tessa,” he pants against her mouth “you— you said—this morning,” he gets out between kisses but she doesn’t care, her hand snaking around to tangle in her hair. 

“It doesn’t count, it’s not real,” she gasps “It’s for our characters, it’s fine. It’s a one-time thing,” she reasons, pulling him into her again and he complies easily, like warm putty in her hands. 

“Method acting,” he murmurs, and she hums against his lips. 

“These are … important roles,” she says, “Romeo and Juliette— _forbidden lovers.”_ She reasons, and by the way he kisses her she thinks he’s for it. 

“Lovers,” he repeats, testing the word out on his tongue and she likes the way he says it, slow and heavy against her lips.

 

He’s careful not to touch her face, with her perfectly applied makeup, or her hair, pinned into a bun at the top of her head without a bump in sight. She notes all of this and files it for later, his hands resting on her waist and his thumbs hovering over the bottom of her ribs so the silk of her dress doesn’t wrinkle. 

 

Someone knocks at the door, and he pulls away from her slowly, placing a kiss under her jaw and meeting her eyes. “Put in the hairpiece,” he says once he’s caught his breath. “I ran all the way here to bring it,” he states, enunciating every word that leaves the tip of his tongue and she nods, running her nails down the back of his neck as she steps away, turning to look in the mirror. Her lipstick didn’t smudge one bit and she runs the pad of her ring finger over her bottom lip. 

“You can come in,” she says, in the most casual voice possible and it’s someone from wardrobe, making sure she got the hairpiece. 

“I made sure it got to her, don’t worry,” he says to the woman, turning to wink at her before he slides out the door and closes it behind him, his hair sticking up a bit at the back. 

 

She pins the gold to her hair and it hurts a bit when the metal clips slide against her scalp.

 

*******

 

Some things change, though a lot less than she thought would if she’s being honest. 

 

They kiss a lot more now though, for one.

Among other things.

 

It’s good for their characters 

 

*******

 

She asks if there’s lipstick on her teeth halfway through some event, smiling wide, and he wipes a bit off with his finger, holding it up to show the red mark left on his pale skin afterwards. 

He rubs the red between two of his fingers, studying the stain it leaves on his skin and dropping his hand to his side. 

“Interesting, but you’re not touching me until you wash your hands; this dress was expensive,” she says, low and meant for only him to hear, and he looks sideways at her. 

 

There’s tables covered in cream cloth and a pianist in the corner playing Mahler's Fifth, him in a white shirt and black suit and her in a rose coloured dress with a wide open back. Her nails aren’t polished because they have to be on stage again tomorrow and French tips weren’t common in 1600’s Verona. She does get to wear her hair down though, as opposed to pulled back in a bun, which she’s happy about. 

“One week of standing ovations later and someone’s feeling bold,” he says, pinching her in the side and she scrunches her nose at him. 

“I said hands off,” she challenges and he tilts his head in return. He’s gotten bolder with her lately, dares and bets and competitions that make her heart beat loud in her chest. 

 

He moves his lips to her ear. “Rethink that and I'll sneak you a proper glass of champagne,” he mumbles. “I heard they got fancy this year and threw strawberries in there too.”

“All out for the sponsors,” she remarks, and she can already see the gears turning in his head. 

“Nothing but zee best for zee French,” he says in a terrible accent that makes her giggle. 

“They’re from Montréal,” she snorts, bumping his shoulder with hers.

“They speak French in Montréal,” he states, his hand grazing her bare lower back before he parts from her and slips through the crowd with a finger pressed to his lips. 

 

He finds her a bit later studying truffles on a table topped with pastries, biting her lower lip with her arms crossed over her stomach. 

“You can have some you know,” he says, sliding in beside her, “I’ll still be able to lift you,” 

“I need to fit into my costumes,” she reminds him, which usually makes him roll his eyes but this time he fills a plate of desserts with one hand and drags her over to a secluded table in the corner.

He puts the plate in front of her and she sighs. “I can feel your hip bones poking me at night,” he says, looking into the crowd. 

“Your elbow is sharp,” she fires back, and he laughs, turning towards her.

“Then we both eat,” he says cheerfully and she gives in, taking a butter tart from the plate. She hasn’t had real dessert in a month, something not sugar-free or vegan or low calorie, and it tastes amazing, her eyes closing automatically. 

“I was promised champagne,” she states through a mouthful of food and he produces a glass with a strawberry on the rim and raspberries at the bottom of the flute. 

“See? All out,” he says and he looks so genuinely impressed, his eyebrows in his hairline, that she laughs, covering her mouth full of pastry with a hand.

“You don’t need to be all proper in front of me,” he says, and she rolls her eyes. 

“It’s actually just called not being gross,” she informs him and he pokes her cheek in retaliation.

 

It’s almost strange, how quickly they slip into their own semblance of normal again. His bad jokes and her loud laughter; it’s still life, just with more of him. 

They split small pastries and take turns sipping from the same glass of champagne until it’s empty and she makes him grab two more while eating the strawberry. If anyone sees, they turn a blind eye and she feels drunk pressed into his side with his suit jacket draped over her shoulders because he was worried she was cold, even though she’s only had a flute and a half of champagne. She also maybe slides her stockinged foot up his leg and he definitely reacts, massaging the back of her neck with his thumb. 

 

“This dress is getting itchy,” she says a bit later, her pointer finger tracing circles on his knee, and his arm heavy on her shoulders. 

“Then let’s leave and you can take it off,” he says, looking down at her casually, like he isn’t talking about undressing her at a public event. 

“It’s not over yet, at least another hour,” she says, pretending to ignore the last part of his sentence while her cheeks go red.

“We’re principals,” he reminds her nonchalantly “Let’s make our rounds and say we need sleep for tomorrow’s performance.” 

“Can we please?” she asks hopefully and he smiles.

“Let’s get that dress off,” he says with a wink, pulling her back into the crowd. 

 

****

The bedroom pas de deux has always been her favourite.

She loves the emotion she gets to show through Juliette, the way her character changes as the scene progresses.

He kisses her, is currently kissing her in the stage lights that are supposed to resemble morning light as she sits on a bed, her hair down and her dress plain, his lips more often that not finding the underside of her jaw and the special place on her neck. It’s slow and sublime, gentle, and the way they start so many mornings now that she thinks about it.

“Are there birds chirping?” he mumbles so that only she can hear and she smiles. If he wants to play, she can play too.

“It’s the nightingale,” she whispers into his hair.

“Mmm,” he contemplates in the crook of her neck “I think it’s the lark, I study bird calls” he jokes softly and she presses a kiss to his forehead, already knowing the truth as he runs to the window. 

He opens the heavy curtain and the mood shifts immediately, everything becoming somber and desperate as she puts down the cloak he picked up and shuts out the morning light. 

From there it’s her holding him tight and her legs extending out, and his cheek pressed against hers as she leans back against him. It’s him grabbing onto her dress and laying his head on her chest and promising he won’t leave if she asks him to stay. 

It’s the inevitability of knowing it can’t last forever as he spins her, his hair threaded between her fingers when she holds onto him like he’s her last bit of light. 

It’s desperate kissing, his hands grabbing her dress, her hair, her shoulders, cupping the sides of her jaw and making every movement matter.

“Please don’t leave,” she mumbles because it’s okay when they’re in costume.

“I won’t, ever,” he says, muffled against her lips but he does, fleeing out the balcony doors with one last kiss.

He leaves and she’s left there broken.

 

*******

He sleeps in her bed a lot more. 

His even breathing against the back of her neck, with an arm thrown over her waist. He thinks it’s weird that she wears socks to bed, and his laugh is like clean bells in the shell of her ear. 

She likes the way he kisses, she always has, holding the side of her face like a flower, smiling against her lips. She likes the way he kisses when it’s only them too though, when he’s just a bit more rough and he makes sounds in the back of his throat, and it’s all him, no bit of Romeo peeking through. 

She likes waking up with him in the morning, his words haphazard and tripping over each other because he isn’t fully there when he first opens his eyes. Lazy smiles and his hair falling in his face, stretching out on her mattress until all his joints pop before hugging her close again. He’s soft and thinks every single one of his jokes is funny under white pressed sheets and fluffy comforters. He whispers them into her fingertips before placing kisses there and wrapping her hand in his own. 

It’s in the moments when tears pool in her eyes because she’s laughing so hard, and her face hurts because she can’t stop smiling and she feels safest in his arms that she really can’t believe how stupid she is because he makes her French toast and then remarks on how Romeo and Juliette probably didn’t have a gas stove, or returns to her bed, his pillow still smelling like him and reminds her that Romeo and Juliette only had one night together and it makes her heart sink. 

 

Because his love, regardless of what it is, feels best on her skin, and there’s only so many things she can excuse as “method acting” before it becomes a special type of real that’s too easy and that they’ve both been hiding from for years. She doesn’t know the extent of how he feels, doesn’t know if his heart clenches the same way hers does when she remembers that they only have another week of shows left that only provides a constant countdown in her head. 

 

She’s not sure how he hasn’t seen it yet, the rows of “I love you” etched into her skin in every place he touches her. Concentrated in her hands and her cheeks and the dips in her collarbones, pooling there like overflowing water threatening to spill over. She whispers it to his open palms at night when she’s sure he’s asleep, closes them so her words don’t escape to his ears. He tells her he loves her back during every performance. At least ten times every show, mumbled into her ear when he holds her and slumped against her chest as he dies. He says it in the security of exposure and she whispers it in the dangerous places where it’s only them, where her words can’t be taken as anything else. 

She thinks he wants her too, hopes he does, against her better judgement. She wouldn’t survive if he told her all their flirting and touching and teasing is just him playing, that her heart is the only one that really beats fast when they’re wrapped in each other and his has just been synched to hers since forever. That he wants her only as his partner, full stop.

 

She’s stupid, impulsive, and she lets him kiss her dizzy and make her smile because Romeo was wrong; he has always been her sun, and she just basks in him. 

 

*****

 

“I hate this,” she says, her feet submerged fully in a bucket of ice water after a show, “I hate this, I hate this, I hate this.” 

“I know,” he sighs, his under-eyes dark and his hair sticky and stiff with gel, “You’ll be sorry if you don’t do it though,” he reminds her and she nods reluctantly. 

“I want to sleep,” she says. 

“Me too,” he smiles tiredly and she feels guilty all of a sudden. 

 

“You don’t have to wait up for me,” she says, looking up at him, shivering slightly as her feet start to turn numb. It’s strange to think about, that he’s staying awake so he doesn’t have to go to bed alone, that he would rather miss out on sleep even though he’s exhausted to make sure they end the day the same way they started it. It’s so….intimate, in a way she’s never really experienced with anyone else. “I’ll be okay,” she reasons.

“It’s weird falling asleep without you, no ‘I’ in team remember,” he jokes softly and she can feel her heartbeat in her throat. 

 

She wants to say a million things but they all get stuck halfway up. That he shouldn’t get attached because they don’t have much time left and that they’re both going to have to get used to sleeping alone again but she can’t make herself pull them into some semblance of reality or reason. She feels pressure all along her chest and all the sudden her eyes sting and she can feel tears start to brim there. 

“I love you,” she gets out and he nods, cradling her head against him and she thinks he must understand, at least partly, what this is doing to them, how she feels. 

 

She doesn’t know what’s wrong with her, why she can’t make herself breathe properly but she chalks it up to just exhaustion and the fact that she’s been going nonstop for more than a week. Outpouring emotions nightly and throwing herself into the choreography so fully her entire body hurts. 

She lets out a small laugh that sounds more like a sob and he kneels down on the floor just to the side of her, folding his arms across her thighs and laying his head down on them. 

There’s something about her dark apartment and the fact that it’s too early or too late depending on how you look at the time that makes it all fuzzy around the edges. 

_Nothing real happens at midnight_ she reasons, gripping the sides of the chair until her knuckles turn white, they’ll be okay. 

 

He closes his eyes and starts to speak, “Once, when I was about five, I was in a dance where I had to hold a girl’s hand and she cried so hard her mom had to come pick her up early from class.” 

“Really?” She sniffles, a smile starting to pull at the corners of her lips. 

“Yeah,” he laughs softly, “her name was Valerie and she thought I was going to give her cooties.” 

“She’s not wrong,” she laughs, wiping her eyes with the backs of her hands and he snorts at that, his breath warm against her thigh. 

“Imagine passing up the chance to dance with Scott Moir,” he teases, his words slow and slurred and she smiles softly, stroking through his hair with one hand. 

“I don’t like sleeping alone much either,” she admits and he’s quiet for a second. 

 

“It can be easy, you know,” He says and she doesn’t reply, brushes a hand across his forehead instead. “Maybe—” he starts but stops quickly, opting to breathe out deeply from his mouth instead and she’s somewhat grateful for it. She isn’t equipped to have these types of conversations when neither of them can keep their eyes open for very long. When all of it feels so very right. 

 

Much later, folded into his arms with the moonlight shining down on them, he mumbles something against the back of her neck and in the morning she almost convinces herself that she didn’t hear him say that maybe they won’t have to anymore.

 

*****

 

 

Sometimes he looks guilty when he kisses her, grabs her by the waist, runs his hands along the sides of her body. Like he’s scared and hesitant, like she’s one wrong touch away from explosion. 

When it gets too real and he sighs her name, and there’s no silk dress to tether him down to earth, his hands will still and he’ll take a deep breath. Like she’s porcelain and he’s scared of breaking her, like she’s fine mental and he’s afraid of tarnishing her.

 

She has to be the one to ground him, to remind him there’s nothing wrong with what they’re doing, it doesn’t have to be real, he can call it whatever he wants, because she doesn’t know herself what it is. She can feel her heart breaking into pieces every time he nods his head, shards of glass reduced to dust in her chest that build themselves up again out of necessity. It’s easy to love him, her heart has never once failed her. 

It’s just better if they don’t think about it too much. 

 

 

******

 

“Most embarrassing stage moment?” she asks and he takes a bit to think before responding.

 

They do these types of things now, lounge in bed and talk about the slivers of life they remember before each other. Games of twenty one questions that are far over but she likes the way his voice sounds when he talks about his brothers and the hill he used to ride his bike down. She likes it most how everything is slow with him, like she could spend hours just listening to him talk and be okay with it. It’s almost too normal, sickeningly mundane and she knows she shouldn’t indulge, but she decides she just wants to. 

 

“When I was still a kid and doing the Nutcracker there were these gifts that the children were supposed to carry around and I shook my present so hard that the top came off and hit me right in the face at centre stage.”

She laughs at that, a big one that bubbles up in her chest and he fake pouts, pulling at a piece of her hair. 

“Mean,” he says. “I tell you my deepest secrets and you laugh at me,” he exclaims, ticking her side which only makes her giggling worse, turning her face into his chest in an attempt to stop it. 

“What about you?” he asks, which makes her giggling stop immediately. 

“When I was twelve I forgot my entire dance onstage, froze, ran off, and then ran back on five seconds later and told everybody who asked about what happened that I didn’t remember it.” 

“Good plan,” he says, a beaming smile covering his face, “flawless execution from beginning to end,” and she hits him lightly on the arm, scrunching her nose at him as he laughs.

“Have you ever been in love?” she asks because she’s reckless and impulsive wrapped in his arms. 

“Yes,” he says, his voice casual and not elaborating further. “Something you’ve never gotten to do but always wanted to?” he asks. 

“The list is endless,” she sighs, choosing to pack away his last answer for another time, “Ski, play tennis, learn how to skate, I just never really had the—”

“—time,” he finishes for her and she looks up at him, this boy who shares her best days and her worst days and now her bed. Her happy moments and lows and all the spaces in between, constant and solid and there. 

 

He kisses her slow and thick and she lets him; his lips that taste like mint against hers and the only thought she has is that she so desperately wishes it was real. That it didn't have an expiry date, that she wouldn’t be ruined when it ends. 

 

 

*****

 

Madonna plays from her phone as she rolls her calves with a foam roller while he stretches out his shoulders beside her. 

 

It’s old pop music, and dim light and the piano in the corner and the occasional sigh from either of them when they hit a sore muscle. 

It’s one of her favourite things about ballet. Quiet rooms where she can forget about everything else and move. The sheen of sweat settled in the crease of her back and the way she feels so open and raw at the end of the day. Pushing until the moment of release when it all just clicks, and it feels like her chest expands three sizes. 

Her body has always been her greatest treasure, her steel toned legs and arms that she can make look like flying silk. She can count the times she has felt really, truly beautiful and they’ve all included her in pink tights and satin shoes with ribbons tied around her ankles. She’s only felt weightless when she’s balancing her entire body on the tips of her toes, only at complete peace when she’s pushing out breaths and gulping down air. 

She thinks about what she would do if she couldn’t be a dancer and draws blanks, the opportunities she’s had have never taken for granted. It’s all she knows, all she is, two surgeries later with strength in every step. 

So every night, even though exhaustion weighs her entire frame down, she faces the crowd, looks to the very back of the theatre, and stands tall until her knees give out. 

 

***

 

 

“I think,” she huffs, a bit dizzy from exertion with his hands on her hips and her back arched, sweat making the hair at the back of her neck curl. His thumbs pushing into the soft skin just to the inside of her hip bones distracts her for a second, momentarily makes her forget her train of thought and she waits until he sets her down to finish. 

 

“I think,” she repeats, her feet touching the stage again and both of them breathing heavy “that we should talk,” she says on a whim, her voice unnaturally high. 

“About what?” he questions, guzzling down water, and the way his throat bobs when he swallows is just as distracting as him touching her so she looks over his shoulder instead. 

“You know,” she says, with no escape now, shrugging her shoulders, and focusing on counting every fold in the curtains.

“You want to talk right here?” he asks in confusion, tipping his head down to hers until their noses are nearly touching, forcing her to look him in the eyes again. 

She can hear the distant chatter of voices and the sound of hard-toed shoes hitting the stage floor. Somewhere she registers the fact that they’re surrounded by people, and immediately backpedals. 

 

“Oh, I um,” she stammers, flexing and closing her hands at her sides “never mind,” she smiles weakly, going for believable and she can tell he sees right through her, his eyebrows knitting in concern but he doesn’t seem like he’s going to press the issue with an entire cast of people around, until he kisses her once quickly on the lips.

“Scott!” she hisses, bringing her hand to her lips and he shrugs, his face unreadable. 

“It’s fine, we’re practicing, nobody cares,” he says casually, catching her wrists and pulling her closer. 

“We don’t practice like that,” she protests weakly, decidedly focusing on the little logo on his shirt rather than his own eyes. 

“We don’t?” he questions in a low voice, and her throat is dry, words stuck somewhere in her chest. “What have we been doing then?” he rasps and she lets out a shaky breath.

“I thought—” she starts, “that we weren’t— not the best place to talk,” she gets out, her head spinning and her stomach churning, and she regrets bringing any of it up all of the sudden. 

“Tessa, we’re just having a normal conversation,” he says slowly and she breathes out twice, her toes curling inside her shoes.

“We should practice the lift again,” she says desperately, but he’s not backing down now.

“Tess,” he says, his voice full of urgency and she’s in full shutdown mode, opening and closing her mouth like a fish. 

“I— I don’t,” she falters, her eyes burning “you said it didn’t— it isn’t—” she chokes out, fighting to keep her voice even, and his expression changes all of a sudden to concern. She can’t do it right now, if he tells her anything less than what she hopes for she thinks she might die. 

“T,” he says softly, pulling her into his arms and she has to physically blink back tears, to keep herself from crying. She needs to stop, she thinks miserably, needs to stop crying into his shirt and getting emotional for no reason. His arms feel nice around her though, safe and warm and she just wishes they could stay like that for a little longer, her chin in the hollow of his shoulder and her arms settled in the curve of his lower back. 

 

“You must know—” he mumbles into her ear, pausing for a second before he continues “you must know how I feel about you,” he says evenly and she closes her eyes tightly.

“No,” she says miserably into his shirt and she can feel his shoulders tense up just a bit. 

“No?” he questions, the shock evident in his voice and she shakes her head just slightly against him. “I can tell you right now, it’s easy with you,” he says nervously, his voice catching in the middle. 

“No!” She says sharply and he repeats it back to her, with even more confusion than last time. 

“Wait until after,” she mumbles tightening her arms around him “after the last show, don’t want it to,” she pauses, considering her words “change things,” she decides on, pulling back so she can look at him and she could swear he looks heartbroken until she clarifies. “No bad changes,” she says, “no matter what,” even though she has no idea what will happen and his face relaxes again. 

 

He brushes hair away from her face with both hands, tucking it behind her ears and kissing her once on the forehead. It’s normal enough so that nobody suspects a thing, years of their own personal definition of what they are leaves room for unspoken intimacy. She closes her eyes against his lips and breathes out once from her mouth, opening her eyes again to find him looking right at her. 

“Not now,” he agrees, “but after the last show we talk for real,” he states, holding the sides of her face carefully, his eyes searching hers. 

She swallows, rolling on the sides of her feet before nodding. “Okay,” she says, on an exhale, and his lips twitch upwards. 

“Okay,” he repeats, pulling her into his arms again. “We’re going to be okay, together,” he says and she smiles against him. 

“No ‘I’ in team,” she murmurs and he beams.

“No ‘I’ in team,” he agrees. 

 

*****

 

Speaking in layman’s terms, she thinks that you could say she’s loved him since she was seventeen. In actuality he had taken residence in every part of her life like he had always belonged there, and more than a decade later she supposes he still does. 

She would like to have him forever, she thinks, if he would have her. 

 

She thinks a lot about what it would be like with him. All the mornings she spent in his arms and the soft cadence of his voice when he speaks to her. Him holding her by the waist and them in front of thousands together, walks through the city and stops for secret ice cream cones they split and so many hours spent with him alone just feeling him move. 

He used to joke that it was fate. Two houses both alike in dignity, her hand never searching long to find his. Growing up twenty minutes from one another, and being put together out of pure chance. Somehow both wandering right into the other’s heart and staying there. 

She thinks about how much comfort she finds in him, how blocking out the rest of the world and connecting only with him feels best. How his eyes are her favourite place to seek solace in, how his hands have never done her wrong. 

They have a series of excellent shows and nights spent tangled together under her sheets and mornings in the soft glow coming from her windows. His arm looped in hers as they walk through crowds in the underground, always making sure she gets on the subway before he does, his hand never far from the small of her back. 

 

She loves him, which isn’t a revelation. How could she not. She thinks though, that she would be fine spending forever with her fingers in the spaces between his, with his smile never far and his voice always nearby. She thinks he might really love her too in all the moments that count. 

She wants him to. 

 

*****

 

She still gets nervous before shows. 

No matter how much mental prep, and experience and confidence she has, she still always gets nervous. Never about forgetting choreography, or him dropping her; always about a step she wobbled on the day before or whether or not she has the right amount of rosin on. 

 

She used to have superstitions, that perfect turns during pre-show practice meant perfect turns during show, and any missed resulted in surefire failure. She’s let go of most of them, realizes she dictates her life more than coincidence, even though a safety pin with the head up still sits in the seam of her dress. 

Sometimes she paces, other times she can’t be spoken to, usually she breathes deeply through her nose and curls her toes over and over again inside her shoes. 

He’s good with her though.

His pinky wrapped around hers and his encouraging words never far. His warmth and his arms around her shaking frame and his hand settled low on her back. 

Five minute call is always the worst but she thinks he makes it better. 

 

*******

 

It’s when they’re taking their final bows at the very last show and his hand is resting on her waist, and flowers weigh her arms down and she’s smiling so hard her cheeks hurt that she thinks about how she’s never been one to shy away from the things she wants. 

 

His eyes crinkled at the corners and ribbons tied around her ankles and his hand resting over his heart. Them at center stage and the applause ringing in her ears. His whispered “I’m so proud of you” into her shoulder and his pure silk smile, and she thinks: if she could choose a moment to live in forever it would be this. 

This moment, where his love is pouring out and she can feel every bit of it. Him beside her in fits of exhilaration, with the effort of all their best work at the forefront of who they are. Hours in the studio, and ice buckets, and needle pricks from sewing pins and every single one of their joint sacrifices. Each of the tiny scars on his fingers marking the times she’s spent in his arms, him keeping her steady and upright and moving. 

She laughs and he cries a bit because he wears his heart on his sleeve and it’s just them. Them with all their beautiful trauma, and history and success tying their souls together. Most of all, what she will remember when she leaves the stage for the last time, is that it was always just them. 

 

It’s simple really, when she thinks about it.

 

All the times she’s fit against him so perfectly and the conversations that flow like water. His smile and her clean sheets, and how normal it all should be. It’s silly really, all her fears and negative thoughts and the bulk of her concerns that don’t make sense when she thinks about it. There’s love in every single thing that holds them together, all she needs to do is let it. 

 

 

******

 

 

He sits in her dressing room after shows sometimes, slumped on the arm of the small couch on the opposite wall from the mirror. Talks about the show and tells stories and thinks up bad jokes to make her laugh as she takes out her hair and wipes off her makeup. He says he doesn’t like being alone afterwards, that it’s no fun sitting in a room all by himself. In some ways she agrees. 

 

“We should get an entire week of cheat days,” he yawns. “And sleep,” he adds, smiling lazily at her through the mirror.

“I second that,” she agrees, stretching so her joints pop. 

“We deserve it, we were good tonight,” he justifies.

“The best,” she corrects. “You better be serious about cheat week,” she says, looking at him over her shoulder. 

 

“I’ll make you breakfast in the—” he starts, but freezes halfway through and she knows it’s because he knows he has no way of justifying waking up with her, not anymore … unless it means more. It’s the post show adrenaline and the anticipation and his messy rambling and she runs with it. 

She thinks she doesn’t care about specifics much; she’s certain actually. She has gone after every single thing she’s ever wanted; in theory it’s easy. 

“—morning,” she continues for him softly, taking the plunge. “Chocolate chip pancakes and whipped cream and strawberries on the side,” 

 

She’s never seen him smile so big before and she can feel her heartbeat in her chest going a mile a minute. Even across the room she can see his eyes light up.

“You missing a sock and me missing a shirt in your kitchen,” he says.

“I'm on the stool watching you cook,” she says, hopefully.

“I’d cook for you any day,” he notes in a low voice and she bites her bottom lip. It’s simple and good and it’s Scott and she could have it.

 

She starts pulling pins out of her bun one by one and takes a deep breath. “It’s not hard,” she says, looking at him through the mirror, “not any of it,” and she thinks he knows exactly what she’s talking about by the look on his face. 

“It never was,” he smiles, getting up and walking towards her. It’s easy, loving him, it’s always been. As Tessa or Juliette or Giselle or Odette, she’s never really had much trouble with it.

She pulls the elastic out of her hair and lets it fall, handing him the brush and leaning back in her chair. He starts at the ends, brushing out the knots and tangles, moving up to the top of her hair where he gently brushes out the hairspray and gel and crunchiness until her hair is soft and free again, cascading down her back in gentle waves from the bun. 

 

“We make it all messy and big but it doesn’t have to be, it’s just us,” he says, “it’s just you and me.”

“I like us,” she mumbles, catching his hand on her shoulder and leaning her cheek against it. “You know my coffee order, and the right subway line, and we’re really good at—” she pauses. “We have excellent stamina,” is what she decides on and he laughs. 

“I like us too,” he smiles, his eyes glinting, “In every way, I like being with you.” 

“When I’m tired and moody?” she asks and he nods. “When I kick you in the hip by accident but actually on purpose when you almost drop me?” she asks and he laughs, loud and bright and clear, and it makes her heart actually beat a bit faster when he holds her cheeks in his hands. 

“Yes,” he says, pressing their foreheads together and closing his eyes. “Yes, yes, yes” he says and she feels a bit dizzy. “I can say in in French if you want, maybe even Italian,” he murmurs and she laughs, pressing the tips of their noses together as she opens her eyes to find him already looking at her. 

 

“You know it’ll change things,” she says nervously and the corners of his lips twitch.

“Everything changes,” he says. “Change with you is good.”

“How good?” she asks with anticipation. 

“So good,” he says, drawing out his words and taking her hands in his. “I’m going to change your last name one day,” he blurts out at full speed and looks horrified one second later. 

“Hyphenated,” she says calmly, and he brushes a piece of hair behind her ear, breathing a sigh of relief. 

“The Virtue-Moirs,” he mumbles, searching her eyes and something like a laugh bubbles out of her chest, all her worries of him deciding he doesn’t want her anymore vanishing in the space of a second. 

 

He grabs a makeup wipe from the package on the counter and cleans her face. She closes her eyes as he takes the colour off her eyelids and the contour from her temples, wipes across her lips, and makes sure it doesn’t smear on her face. 

“All clean,” he says, looking pleased with himself and she glances at herself in the mirror. Her face is pink from the wipe and her hair is a bit frizzy and the beginnings of dark bags are forming under her eyes. Still, he’s looking at her like she’s hung the sun. 

 

“Can I kiss you for real?” he asks hopefully. “As us,” he adds, and it feels like catharsis. Like stripping away every layer and just being. It’s not like fireworks and explosions and lights behind her eyes and her body humming. It just feels like him. Like the boy she trusts most and the same hands that have always touched her, and his same smile against hers. It’s slow and sweet and tame but she supposes they have to start somewhere. 

“I like real with you—and kissing you. A lot,” she blurts out as they part and that makes him laugh softly, his smile infectious and boyish and clean. 

“I like everything with you,” he says, “I’m going to do everything with you Tessa Jane,” and she kisses him again, this time longer and better and just a bit rougher. His lips on hers and her hands in his hair and his smile against hers.

“Everything?” she asks and he smiles. 

“Everything,” he confirms. 

“I’ve never been skiing,” she says. 

“I know—”

“—I’ve always wanted to learn to skate,” she mumbles, kissing under his jaw.

“We can do that too,” he says his voice light and airy and hopeful. “In a few years.”

“Years?” She questions, pulling back, and he holds her cheeks in his hands.

“We have a ballet career together which means no injuries and we have forever too, we have time T; you don’t need to rush,” and she smiles at that, one word ringing over and over in her head.

 

“Forever,” she repeats, laying her head on his shoulder and nothing has ever sounded sweeter. 

 

Fin

*******

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks a lot for reading ;) 
> 
> Yes I know in companies that there are more than two principal dancers but yknow,,,,it’s whatever. 
> 
> Comments are the only things keeping me going. 
> 
> Title is from Heather and Guillaumes music vid. They’re actual principal dancers at the national ballet of Canada and they’re married with two kids. 
> 
> https://youtu.be/5YvJRsO27LU  
> ^^watch here 
> 
> Many thanks to @bucketofrice and ceci for their wonderful editing 
> 
> Find me at @buisnesspartners on tumblr ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


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